


Bucky the Latte Boy

by Almeisan_S



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Also I really love when people flesh out side characters, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Does Not Need A Hug, But he sure would like one, But that is NOT what I did here, Coffee Addict Tony Stark, Flirting, Flirty Bucky Barnes, Fluff and Humor, From Steve that is, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pining, Shy Steve Rogers, Stubborn Steve Rogers, They're definitely not mutually exclusive when it comes to Captain America, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 17:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10576386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Almeisan_S/pseuds/Almeisan_S
Summary: Steve comes into Starbucks at 8:11. He sees someone very inspirational.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Not Because You Look Like](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713032) by [checkthemargins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkthemargins/pseuds/checkthemargins). 



> One of my very inspirational people is Kristin Chenoweth. Check out how funny and talented she is [here](https://youtu.be/zXS0nEOx_20). This was also inspired by all of the other coffee shop fics I've read over the years. I hope I did the genre justice. :)

Steve walked into the Starbucks near his place for the first time at 8:11 am on a Wednesday. His run that morning had felt more tedious than invigorating, and he was in dire need of a coffee to work up the nerve to get through the rest of this day. His shirt was soaked through from the rain—and he knew from first hand experience that even sweat felt better than the gritty, greasy New York precipitation. He trudged up to the counter, fruitlessly tried to stop water from dripping into his face, and made eye contact with the most beautiful human being he had ever seen in his life.

Standing at the counter in a green Starbucks apron, looking tired, was a man with a thick shock of dark hair, stormy grey-blue eyes, a stubbly square jaw, a very kissable mouth, and a metal arm. Steve was aware he was thinking in clichés, but it was impossible not to. Christ, he was friends with Natasha and even she was nowhere near as…inspirational…as this guy. Steve immediately flushed and looked down.

“What can I get ‘ya?” beautiful Starbucks employee asked, in a fucking Brooklyn accent. That wasn’t fair.

Steve managed to stammer out a reply just in time to keep his pause from being noticeable. “Uh, a double, double latte please.”

“That’ll be $3.55,” the guy responded promptly, and had the order rung up and his hand out for Steve’s card before he could think twice.

Steve nearly dropped his card fumbling it out of his running sweats, but handed it over without incident. He got it back barely thirty seconds later, along with a receipt, and slunk off to wait for his drink, trying not to stare. His resolve broke as soon as beautiful Starbucks employee stopped staring blankly at the wall above the door, and, shaking off his fatigue, began chatting with the coworker who was making Steve’s drink, in what sounded like Russian.

Steve’s face heated up again, and he concentrated on the other guy to keep himself from gaping like an idiot. The recipient of the Russian-like language had just finishing making his drink now, and walked out from behind the machines to set it on the counter, where Steve could see he was wearing a name tag that said “Gabe.” He wondered where beautiful Starbucks employee’s nametag was.

“Double latte,” Gabe called out into the nearly empty room. Steve guessed it was just habit—the jittery fellow corralled in the corner by complicated looking notes was certainly too absorbed to have refilled on caffeine recently. Same went for the lady in the business suit efficiently scarfing down a breakfast sandwich. Steve collected himself, grabbed his coffee, and headed for the door.

He was two steps away when beautiful Starbucks employee spoke in English again. “Enjoy that, huh?” he said. Steve whirled around as he realized the comment was directed at him. “It’s really pissing down out there.”

“Y-yeah,” Steve said, taking a sip of the coffee thoughtlessly, and attempted a smile.

“Guess you would know,” the guy said as an afterthought, and one side of his very kissable mouth quirked up.

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said again, much more sarcastically, and was tempted to stay in the warm coffee shop after all.

Then the guy _really_ grinned. His eyes crinkled up, the corners of his mouth did something amazing, and his face glowed. Steve downed a gulp of coffee and fled.

* * *

 

The next day was sunny and dry—New York in the spring, go figure—but Steve stopped in at the Starbucks near his apartment at precisely 8:11 anyway. He’d cut his run a little short to have time to go home and shower, so now he smelled really good. He thought he probably smelled good. He made eye contact with beautiful Starbucks employee for the second time, asked for a double latte, and wondered if he actually smelled good at all or if he just smelled like he usually did—which he guessed was like turpentine, anxiety, and a certain large, one-eyed dog who liked to slobber all over visitors.

Beautiful Starbucks employee smelled like coffee, and so did his coworker, who today was a heavyset red-haired man wearing a bowler hat and no nametag. Steve took his latte and shuffled over to an empty table halfway behind a plant. He drank it slowly and tried not grimace. Beautiful Starbucks employee smelled like coffee and worked at Starbucks, so he probably liked coffee. Steve would like coffee too, for him, even though he hadn’t really drunk it since college—yesterday morning had been a special morning of tedium, awful-ness and rain.

Red-haired guy was talking to the light of Steve’s life about rifles, who was responding purely in grunts and the occasional yawn. Then red-haired guy mentioned how outdated some special kind of rifle was, and beautiful Starbucks employee stopped mid-yawn, apparently so he could start a fight. The conversation got technical fast, and Steve mooned over the guy’s angry face and wondered if there was a gun range in Brooklyn where people who liked guns went to shoot them.

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Steve walked into Starbucks at 8:11. He was about fifty dollars poorer than usual, but he had learned the following things about the most perfect person on earth: he had been in the army, before something terrible happened and he went home minus one arm. He didn’t like his first name, especially not when spoken by his sister Becca. He was not a morning person, but he took more morning shifts than anyone of his coworkers. And more afternoon shifts, and more night shifts. He was overworked and underpaid. Nevertheless, he was a kind and generous soul who asked Steve “how are you” every day. Beautiful Starbucks employee knew the guy who designed his prosthetic, and played guitar to test his dexterity with the new arm. He did, in fact, like coffee, as well as guns and baseball. He did not, in fact, like running--or therapy, or losing. He had a smile that made Steve’s heart want to beat out of his chest. And he was fluent in a language that sounded a lot like Russian, but that definitely wasn’t Russian.

“Steve? Earth to Steve?”

Natasha waved her hand in front of his face like a jerk, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah?” he snapped. “What?”

Natasha smirked. “You’re drinking a double latte. That guy made it for you without even asking.”

“It’s my usual,” Steve said, trying to sound casual.

Natasha knew him too well. “You hate coffee,” she announced.

“Shhhhh!” Steve said frantically. He peeked up from under his Dodgers cap to make sure that beautiful Starbucks employee hadn’t heard.

Natasha was still smirking. “So this is why you were so jumpy at lunch the other day,” she said. “I told Clint something was going on with you.”

“Shut up,” Steve hissed. “Nothing’s going on with me. I love coffee.”

“You love sooooomething alright…” Natasha sang. “Do you want to know what language he’s speaking?”

“You know?” Steve asked excitedly. “But even Google didn’t—” He cut himself off, despite knowing from Natasha’s expression that it was far, far too late.

“I’ll tell you… _if_ you ask what his name is,” she said.

“Wha—that’s not fair!” Steve said. “How do you know I don’t already know?”

“Steve, I know everything,” she said pityingly, patting his hand. “Now, you’re running with Sam tomorrow, right? He’ll be there for moral support.”

And to report on me for you, Steve thought sourly. But he did want to know what that language was awfully bad. He capitulated. “Fine.”

“It’ll be good for you,” she said sweetly. “I have no idea how someone can be so stubborn but still be so sensitive. You’re like simultaneously the best and the absolute worst.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly, and got up to trash his half-full coffee. He would’ve thrown it, if that hadn’t been risking a coffee splatter that beautiful Starbucks employee would probably take upon himself to clean up. “Wait, why do you hang out with me then?” he asked.

“Because somehow that's what’s so likeable about you,” she said, and opened the door for him to walk out.

* * *

Steve didn't quite get in to Starbucks at 8:11 the following day, because his run with Sam was actually the _absolute_ worst. Clearly, Natasha had filled him in.

“So what’s he like?” Sam asked as soon as they got into a pace. “I hear he plays guitar. Is he rugged and manly or soulful and sweet?”

Steve stepped up the pace, and Sam did too.

“Why do you think he works at Starbucks. I hear he might be Russian, do you think he’s a spy?” Sam asked, grinning.

“He’s not Russian,” Steve snapped, and spent the rest of the run trying to lap Sam so he could come up behind him and shove him into the lake.

After the run, Steve regretted that he was both unsuccessful and drenched in sweat. Also, Sam wouldn't let him go home and shower.

“C’mon,” his friend said. “I bet Starbucks guy likes you sweaty.” And then he refused to walk past the Starbucks to wait for Steve to shower at his apartment, "just to go straight back." They argued until 8:15, then Steve noticed the time and ran down the block with Sam laughing behind him. 

Beautiful Starbucks guy was busy with another order when Steve came in, but he rushed through it when he saw Steve so he could be at the register to…surely not just to talk to _him_? Sam elbowed him in the ribs with the force of a Mac truck as they walked up. Great. Steve was not only sweaty but also out of breath by the time he made it to the register.

“Hi,” he panted, like someone who’s life was a mess.

“How are you,” beautiful Starbucks employee purred, like a literal angel from heaven.

“Oh, I’m uh…” he glanced back at Sam, who made “go on” motions at him unhelpfully. “Fine and my name’s Steve,” he blurted out.

Beautiful Starbucks employee smiled, and softly answered, “Hey.”

“Yeah my name’s Steve and thanks for the extra foam,” Steve said like an idiot who hadn’t even gotten his drink yet.

“No problem,” he got in response. And then beautiful Starbucks employee winked. “My name’s Bucky.”

Steve swallowed and tried not too breathe too loudly.

Bucky—Bucky!—swayed down the counter to make a double latte, and Sam stepped up to the register with his eyebrows raised. “Wow,” he whisper-shouted. “I haven’t seen anyone flirt that hard since Darcy laid eyes on Jane’s new intern.”

Steve thwacked him in the arm blindly, unable to look away from Bucky’s—Bucky’s!—practiced movements at the espresso machine. Was that an extra shot? Steve thwacked Sam again, eyes wide. It _was_.

“What?” Sam asked. Steve just thwacked him one more time, this one to shut him up as Bucky made his way back to the register.

“Hey this one’s on me,” Bucky rumbled. Then he looked down to Steve’s shoes. Steve was simultaneously elated and downtrodden. Was there something on his face? Then Bucky looked back up and smiled again, and he forgot everything else.

Sam coughed loudly. Steve jumped and reached forward to grab his coffee at the same time Bucky reached forward to hand it to him. Their hands bumped. Steve quickly brought his other hand up to clutch the cup and keep it from spilling. “Uh, thanks,” he mumbled, heart full of the knowledge that this was secretly a triple. And that he hated coffee, but Bucky loved it.

“No problem,” Bucky said again, and clapped him on the shoulder. Steve prepared to bask, but was prematurely yanked away by Sam, who he had kind of forgotten existed. He was towed to the table farthest from the counter and shoved into a chair.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Sam said immediately. “Did you _flex_?”

“No!” Steve said indignantly, even though he had.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Sam groaned. And then continued reluctantly. “Ugh, it’s okay, he was totally checking you out.”

“ _Really_?” Steve asked giddily.

“Ugh, yes, ewww, this is why I didn’t want to tell you, but you’re just so hopeless I couldn’t not.”

Steve laughed out loud and gulped down his god-awful beverage. Extra espresso made it taste more like coffee and less like milk, but he really couldn’t care less.

* * *

 

Natasha delivered the next day, with the information that the language Bucky spoke occasionally with Gabe was Romanian. _Romanian_.

“I wonder if he likes America?” he asked her over the phone, while really thinking: I wonder if he had a hard childhood? And, I wonder how he lost that arm? And, even more deep down: I wonder if he’s lonely?

“Just ask him, Rogers,” Natasha said.

Steve jumped. “Uh, what?”

"Just ask him out already,” she pronounced carefully. “Why, what else could I have meant?”

Steve rolled his eyes and hung up. Then he went out to run.

He walked into Starbucks confidently at 8:11. He knew Bucky spoke Romanian. He knew a lot. He could do this.

“I’ll have a double latte,” he said forcefully.

Bucky’s eyes crinkled and Steve’s resolve melted. “Yep, I know,” he said cheerily, and called out the order to Gabe.

He and Steve stared at each other for a moment.

“Y’know—” Bucky began.

“I don’t like coffee,” Steve interrupted.

Bucky shut his mouth and looked surprised for a second, as if the thought of anyone not liking coffee was baffling. Then he slowly started to sparkle. Then he leaned in.

Steve caught his breath and shouted at himself to react. He put his hands on the counter and shifted his weight forward just a little bit.

Bucky’s face was pretty close now. Like six inches away. That was pretty close right? For coffee acquaintances?

“Y’know,” Bucky murmured, beautifully, “you should take a break from all this coffee. Not great for your heart. You seem like person who likes to stay fit.”

“Um,” Steve said. “I run.”

“I prefer alternative forms of exercise,” Bucky said with a smirk. “Whaddaya say we get a non-coffee drink some time and see if I can convince you that my way’s better?”

Steve tried to get his heartbeat back under control. “That sounds really great,” he managed. He hated losing too--but he just might be willing to concede this time.


End file.
